


Flirting With the Setting Sun

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Powell Estate circa 1987, the Doctor takes her to a beach planet. Something glossy and fun to cover up mistakes they each made. Pleasure and distraction – and Hedonia offers it in spades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flirting With the Setting Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [neverwhyonlywho](http://neverwhyonlywho.tumblr.com/) for your beta efforts!

 After the Powell Estate circa 1987, the Doctor takes her to a beach planet. There’s hazy sun and soft sand, warm water that’s crystal clear and sparkling. Rose tilts her head to the side, considering (him, and their location), but keeps silent; she walks out of the TARDIS and on to the promenade. The nights on Hedonia descend slowly, gently, easing into a muted darkness lit up by bright and blurring lights. On every tree and every awning, small bulbs twinkle, glow and flash, and the streetlamps dye the pavement lurid greens and blues with their tinted shades.

 

 It’s distant from South London, both in time and space. A handful of millennia and thousands of light years separate this night from what happened on a dreary, November afternoon, overcast with a chance of rain; a church and a broken vase, and a daughter holding her father’s hand. That’s why he chose it, of course. Something glossy and fun to cover up mistakes they each made. Pleasure and distraction – and Hedonia offers it in spades.

 

  He’s replaced the grey concrete blocks of government housing with the pink stucco and neon signs that line Hedonia’s waterfront. Instead of working poor and almost-poverty there are tourists with sunburnt skin and endless credits. There are no depressing pubs on corners, no one waiting for the giro, just nightclubs with thumping music, sticky floors; predatory men and predatory women with their perfect mouths and teeth.

 

  Rose hates it, he can tell. Sitting at the cramped table in the club, she sips at the cocktail he ordered for her. Generic fruit juice, freshly grated ginger and rum flows up the straw and into her mouth as he watches, her cherry-red lips pursed for suction. She licks, flicks out her tongue, wiping away a droplet of her drink – intentional or not (he’s never quite sure), the night gets hotter, gets heavier, and he feels like a fool in his wool and leather.

 

  Rose is volatile tonight, unsettled. She fidgets with her hair, pushing it back constantly behind her ears. Pale-pink fingernails tap on the wood of the table,  _click-click-click_.

 

  ‘Why’d you bring me here?’ Rose finally asks –  _shouts_  – over the intrusive music. From the flush to her cheeks he knows the alcohol has hit her bloodstream running, is making her loose-tongued, loose-limbed; her knees are bouncing in time with the beat, and her elbow props her up on the table they share. ‘You’re not even drinkin’.’

 

  The Doctor tilts his head toward his glass of water, and she rolls her eyes.  _That’s not what I meant_ , her face says, and he shrugs. Speaking the reasons aloud would make him seem small. Petty.

 

 There’s jealousy, for one, a tiny ember of it lodged in his chest. When he looks at her, he sees her face, petulant and childlike and shouting the truth at him. He doesn’t like the feel of it, how he’s showing off, just a bit. Proving that he’s still impressive, still important. “ _Open the doors, Rose Tyler,_ ”he said to her earlier that day, the reptilian smell of the Reapers clinging to his jacket.“ _We’re on a different planet._ ”

 

  He sees her, asking for forgiveness; his hands cupping her cheeks and his lips pressing kisses to her forehead; benediction and restraint, and he’s not that good, he just pretends. He’s seeking his own absolution in bringing her to a vapid entertainment planet known for their mixed drinks. In not rolling his eyes at her outfit, in keeping his mouth shut as he noticed the ragged hemline of her shorts.

 

  There’s the scramble to regain his sense of self, to carve back the parts of his soul he gave her. He was at her mercy, earlier, arms outstretched and willing to die – to  _not exist_ – to make her happy for a few minutes more. It scares him, how he wants more than that, wants to possess parts of her too. Wants to  _seize, control, dominate_ , just to prove he can.He’s barely held together as it is, scar tissue and willpower, and he needs to keep running, they both do, before it catches and overtakes him. Rejection made him cold and numb, and he’s still on fire from her wanting him back.

 

  ‘Fine,’ Rose says, because he’s not talking, not giving her the answer she wants, and she sighs. Her breath is sweet, fermented sugar and juice; it makes his hands curl under the table, where they ruin a paper napkin. ‘M’gonna go dance.’ She pauses, looks him in the eye. Chews her lip,then winces, an expression she hides by sweeping back her hair ( _again!_ ). ‘You could join me.’

 

  He’s not  _great_ with words in this body – does all right, when he needs to, but he’s too blunt by half, causing bruises on purpose and by accident – and now they catch in his throat, huge and unwieldy.  _Yes_ , he wants to say, because he wants to say  _yes_  to everything she asks of him. Because he’d like to hold her, for a little while, to know what it feels like.  _No_ , he wants to say, because holding her for a little while wouldn’t be enough, and he thinks that letting go might kill him, now. Because he needs to limit their contact to make sure he doesn’t ruin her, like he’s ruined so many things.

 

  ‘Rose,’ he begins. Her name is where his tongue wants to go by default. ‘I don’t - ’

 

  ‘Actually, nah, don’t worry about it,’ she cuts in quickly, already seeing him decline. Her eyes drop away from his face and become obscured by eyelashes and thick mascara. ‘Stupid thought. Mind my drink, though, yeah?’

 

  Rose doesn’t wait for him to reply, and oh, he’s a coward for being glad of that; she just slips off her chair and away from the table, her head held high and her back straight. There’s a moment when her legs are a bit wobbly – awkward in high heels that are too tall for her – but she regains her balance before he can leap up and place a steadying hand on her elbow. The Doctor breathes out heavily, relief and regret all mixed together. Her body is graceful,  _elegant_ , as she weaves her way through the crowd, ducking and twisting around the crush of dancers. He almost smiles: there’s nowhere in the universe where Rose Tyler doesn’t fit, isn’t welcome. The sea of people gladly parts and absorbs her, swallows her entirely.

 

  The Doctor loses track of her just for a second, and then there’s a glint of her golden head as the lights scan over the dance floor, a flash of her face as the strobe hits. Rose dips and sways, raises her arms in the air – she’s blind, with her eyes closed, to the fact she draws attention, becomes the gravitational center of the room. She wears a dreamy smile, soft and gently curving, and it’s at odds with the pounding music, the sweat that’s dripping down her throat, making her hair stick to slick skin. Conflicts with how her shirt is rising up and revealing her stomach, taut muscles and the slight imprint of her waistband.

 

  He grits his teeth and tears his gaze away. Glowering, sitting in the corner, he orders a strong drink. When it arrives, the glass is cold and damp with condensation; he wipes his fingers on his jeans and tries to ignore the fact that the whiskey matches Rose’s irises. He hopes –  _insists_  – he’s not that far gone, not yet.

 

  It’s a song later, with the taste of bitterness and smoke lingering in his mouth, that he allows himself to search for Rose again – and finds her watching him. Wide eyes, guileless, open; her face is full of interest, revealed, he suspects, by the series of cocktails she’s imbibed. There’s a thoughtful expression furrowing her brows. She’s slow to realise that the object of her observation is observing  _her_ , but when she does, her smile grows sly, grows large, and he grows very worried.

 

  He throws a manic grin her way, and a wave, showing her that he’s still an alien, all oblivious and good-natured. That this is fun, and isn’t making his palms want to sweat.

 

  Rose raises an eyebrow and shrugs – a little too forceful to be natural – and sets her sights on a dance partner ( _pretty, young, long and lanky_ ). He’s nervous,  _dazzled_ by her, he has to be: he melts at the attention, nervously playing at his hair, tugging at an earlobe. She’s charming, playful, knocking his shoulder with hers as she shows him which way to move. Something he says makes her laugh, and she tips back her head, delighted. The Doctor can hear her giggles from where he sits.

 

  When the pretty boy looks down worriedly at his feet, she sneaks a glance at the Doctor; he lifts his glass to her in a toast.

 

  (As soon as her back is turned, he gulps the rest of his drink, grimacing.)

 

  The Doctor is not human, but he’s aware, dimly, of the games humans play. This is a challenge, now, in the way Rose comes in close and lets her breasts brush against the other man’s chest, in how her hands slip open the buttons of his jacket and pull at his tie. This is Rose testing him, dancing slowly, becoming languid and out of sync with the music. It becomes just an excuse to rock her hips, to practically  _grind_  herself on a stranger in a night club.

 

  This isn’t the first time she’s done this, the push, push, push of boundaries, of his patience. She’s flirted with guards and soldiers and scientists. Invited that callow boy along with them and rolled her eyes at his incompetence. Rose has walked her fingers along his arm and thrown labels at him (“ _Companion? Really? Why not mate, or best friend? Buddy? Partner?_ ”) until his stony silence bores her. And always he’s been careful, strong; has found his inner balance and never stumbled. His own transgressions are imaginary, private - the source of pleasure, found by himself, slick-fast-hot, and then cold and cooling, and laced with shame. 

 

  Rose wraps the pretty boy’s tie around her fist and tugs. He dips his head down from the motion, eagerly dropping closer to her face – his teeth are white and straight and even, and he grins like a nervous school boy. She wets her lips, her small, pink tongue darting out, almost breaching the small distance between them. Their noses touch, tips brushing gently, much too gentle, really. This is a sweet gesture, nearly romantic, and the Doctor feels his resolve melt from the acid burning in his throat.

 

  This is him taking the bait, biting off a string of curse words as he gets out of his seat and follows after her.

 

  He’s thoughtless, mindless, almost pushing his way through the crowd of dancers. They don’t want him here, and he can’t blame them, but Rose is burning tonight – she’s incandescent – and she’s lit the fuse they’ve both tried to ignore. It fizzes, as he finds her. Sparks when he glares at her dance partner, not bothering to hide, for once, who he is. His eyes feel like ice - tired and ancient, too - and the man steps back, his hands spread wide in surrender.

 

  The Doctor doesn’t wait, just grabs Rose’s arm and pulls her away. Fingers and firm flesh, and bruises, there’ll be bruises, small and dark. She’ll know exactly where his hands were when she looks at them later, and that thrills him more than he would ever admit.

 

  ‘Doctor!’ She wriggles out of his grip, looking furious and pleased. ‘What d’you think you’re doin’?’

 

  He goes still, an immovable object battered against the wave of dancers. Very softly, he says: ‘You tell me.’

 

  Rose frowns a little, shifts under his stare. She’s such a tiny thing, and fragile, and it’s disarming how fierce she is: she doesn’t bow to him. Her chin lifts and she holds out her hand – small, the palm creased with lines he knows as well as he does the stars of Kasterborous. Her voice is confident, direct, leaving no room for misinterpretation as she asks him for a second time: ‘Wanna dance?’

 

  It’s a bad idea ( _he sees a timeline deteriorating, breaking off; Rose in blue and white and red, smirking; “dance” as a euphemism, said in inverted commas - grammatical distance he can’t quite maintain with his body_ ) but he accepts. He holds her hand, comes in close.

 

  Standing next to her he can feel her body’s heat, can smell the pale remnants of her perfume sweated off from dancing. He barely touches her, barely skims the surface, teasing them both. There’s only a thin layer of skin hiding veins and muscles and bone, and though he wants to -  _needs_ to - mark her, hold her, keep her, she’s delicate, and his control is a frayed and weakened thing. 

 

  Rose takes charge, her fingers wrapping around his wrists now, dragging down his hands until they land on her hips, the small swells that peek out from under her shirt. Her shorts are denim, rough and worn, and his fingers brush against them – there’s warm flesh, too, a portion of stomach that curves slightly. He feels damp sweat and little, fair hairs, feels her blood that rushes and pulses. She’s so much more  _alive_  than he is, vibrant and rich next to his slumberous body. She makes his head spin just by the act of inhaling.

 

  This all takes three beats in 4/4 time. On the next electronic blip, they dance.

 

  It’s a halting, at first – he feels so tired, so stiff in his bones that his movements are off, jerky - but Rose is a natural. Uninhibited and unselfconscious, she rolls and bounces; her hands rest on his shoulders, squeezing and releasing in time with the music. He follows after her, chases the rhythm; finds it, once he separates the beat of the music from her heart and how it’s thumping right through the fabric of his jumper.

 

  The Doctor can feel all the places their bodies meet: her thumbs brush his jaw, her fingers touch his throat; he’s smoothing his hands up and down her back, over soft cotton that sticks and slides to her skin. He taps his fingers along her spine, traces the edge of her waistband. Gets scared and finds safe ground somewhere on her hips.

 

  Rose has got her eyes closed crinkle-tight again, like keeping them open is a sin. He’s enthralled by this, by everything about her, and for a time he’s lost in just having her in his arms. The way they bump and jar, and sway when the music calls for it, and how he can anticipate her movements, account for it – shift his body to accommodate her.

 

  The song hits the bridge and Rose spins, suddenly. She twists around, her back pressing against his front and her hair in his mouth. His hands automatically splay across her stomach, keeping her still, for a moment, and then quickly letting her go – he can’t, he  _can’t_ keep her that close to him, not without revealing how hard he’s been for half the night. Maybe he already has: she tensed, a little, her breathing stopping, and then it resumed in a shuddered exhale. She lifts her arms and clasps them behind his neck, tethering him to her, as always.

 

  Like this, her body is an arc; muscles stretched tight, curving back into him. Looking down, he can see the long slope of her throat, her shirt’s loose and sagging neckline and the tops of her breasts before the white material conceals them again. He can’t help but run his hands down her arms, measuring the expanse of skin on display –  _ten centimeters, twenty, so soft, all of her, and is that her mole?_ She shivers: his fingers have calluses on them, and he thinks they must be rough against her, but he doesn’t stop, he follows the lines of her body, down her side. She’s nearly squirming from his touch; it’s heady,  _powerful_ , the control he has over her.

 

 _Mine_ , he thinks, except he doesn’t: Rose’s eyes flutter open, and he realises that he spoke aloud. Her face tilts up, questioning, and the Doctor wonders if he should run. Instead, his fingers tighten, now at her hips, and he presses his forehead against her temple. ‘Mine.’

 

  There’s a sound she makes, something like a whimper. Rose turns in his arms, and she’s shaking her head to refute the claim even as she clutches at his collar, draws him down. Their mouths meet, hard and desperate; messy – she’s got sticky, wet lips that part almost instantly, and it’s so easy to deepen the kiss, to slide his tongue forward so it brushes hers. She gasps, rolls her hips in time with her lips as she kisses him. His nose is pressing into her cheek; hers is scrunched, wrinkled along the bridge from the angle.

 

  Finally, the kiss breaks. They pull apart.

 

  Rose takes a shaky breath and frowns. ‘No,’ she mutters, and his hearts plummet. ‘ _Mine_.’

 

  It’s thoughtless, how he kisses her again, just falls into it. He feels the scrape of her teeth and he moans, wanting that edge of pain, and she does it again, nipping and then licking away the sting with her tongue. Rose tastes like sugar, and ginger to his whiskey, sweetness that coats his mouth but doesn’t cloy. Her hands move from his jacket up to his neck, the back of his head – holds him there. They need air, and the kisses lose form, become blurred and hurried. He sucks her lower lip, kisses the corner of her mouth; pauses and just _breathes_  as she nudges at his lips, seeking more.

 

  The Doctor lets himself be bold, for once, now that he has her, is  _kissing_  her. He glides his hands up and under her cotton top though it clings to her; he explores the warm skin of her stomach, the indent of her belly button. Rose murmurs something into his mouth, too quiet for him to hear with the thumping music playing still over the nightclub’s speakers, and then, _oh_ , his breath hitches: she’s not wearing a bra; she’s wearing nothing underneath her shirt. There’s no lace or underwire, it’s just her breasts, and his palms are covering them, making her pant against his neck and wriggle until she’s moulded to his body, curves meeting flat planes, hips meeting hips and there’s no disguising the fact that  _that_  is his cock, hard and pressing into her abdomen.

 

  Rose lifts her head from the crook of his neck and looks at him. Her eyes are glassy, glossy, her pupils blown wide – it’s gorgeous,  _she’s_  gorgeous, and the idea that he made her this way gives him an electric rush that almost makes him tremble.

 

  ‘Can we,’ Rose begins, then stops, embarrassed. She moistens her lips, and tries again. ‘Can we go somewhere else?’

 

  ‘Why?’ The Doctor asks as his mouth travels down her throat, licking at sweat-salt skin. He’s being perverse, obtuse; he wants to hear her say it, wants to see her form the words and make it real. It’s payback, too, retribution for forcing his hand and snapping his restraint. He’s appalled at his behaviour, at how his thumbs are still stroking her nipples, the pads rubbing circles over them, small and tight and just enough to steal her focus. ‘What do you want?’

 

  ‘This.’ She whispers, rocking into him.

 

  He groans, contact and friction, and drops his hands to her waist, keeping her still. His control is tightly wound, but he can see it spiraling, unspooling if she continues to do that. Rose glares and he nips her neck, sucks at her flesh. Her head lolls back and she exposes the entire column of her throat, pale and vulnerable and ready for him to mark with his teeth.

 

  ‘Can do  _this_ ,’ the Doctor thrusts against her leg, ‘here, Rose.’

 

  The button of her shorts is made of metal, cool to the touch; it pops open with just the slightest pressure. There are people around them, dancing, still – they’ve been given some space, a small pool of calm on the dance floor, but it’s not private, not at all. This is why people come to Hedonia, for the relaxed atmosphere, the slightly sleazy tang in the air that seems so impressive to people from more modest locales. But he’s a  _Time Lord_ , not a bored tourist from one of the outer planets: he really shouldn’t be pulling down her zip, one tooth and a time; shouldn’t be pressing a hand to her lower back forcing her closer to him.

 

  Rose’s eyes go huge and she glances around nervously, her hand clutching at his jacket until the leather creaks. A flash of anger blazes through him.

 

  ‘D’you think your friend is still watching?’ He asks, making sure his breath is hot in her ear; he nuzzles it, runs the tip of his nose around the shell. She bites her lip and hides her face in his chest, shaking her head in tiny, jerky movements. If she says anything, it’s lost under the music, lost in the wool of his jumper. He can feel the heat of her cheeks, burning red from embarrassment and arousal. ‘Rose?’

 

  ‘Don’t care.’ She mumbles, and it’s beautiful,  _so_ beautiful, everything about her – even these barely shaped words.

 

  She tilts her hips, very gently, against his hand, and he swears, filthily, in another language.

 

  It drives him on and makes him breathless; he pulls the zip down slowly, half-heartedly trying to keep his actions from the view of voyeurs, until there’s a gap in her shorts large enough for his fingers to run over the delicate pink knickers she’s wearing, to sneak over the elastic of the waistband and down, down, down across damp skin, then wet curls, then… her –  _Rose_ – hot and slick.

 

  At the first brush of his fingertips along her folds she gasps and shifts her legs subtly, parting,  _encouraging_ ; he slides further down, reaches her entrance and moves back up to her clit. Like this, with how close their bodies are, how wrong the angle is for his wrist, he can’t pump his fingers, can’t curl them inside her, so he settles for painting lazy strokes, practically indulgent shapes on her sensitive flesh, excuses to learn what she likes, how she responds to his touch.

 

  ‘Doctor,’ she says, all soft and breathy, and the  _sound_  of it – it makes his cock twitch, sends a thrill right down his spine. ‘Doct –  _oh_!’ Rose trembles in his arms. ‘TARDIS. Now. Please.’

 

  That word, and the sight of her this way – impossibly aroused, shaking,  _begging_  him – sends his mind and senses reeling. ‘Yes,’ he answers, and he’s not sure if it’s an agreement, an admission, or just an involuntary groan drawn from between his teeth.

 

  The hand on her back shifts to her face, cups her cheeks and he kisses her, hungrily, all reservation gone now, replaced with lust, and need, and want so sharp it makes him dizzy; all thought replaced with Rose scraping her nails across his scalp, the hums of pleasure she makes that vibrate against his teeth.

 

  Pressed against his face like this, Rose’s words are strung together between kisses. ‘TARDIS, yeah? Want you.’

 

  ‘Tell me,’ he demands, fingers stroking harder. ‘Tell me, Rose.’

 

  ‘Only you.’ Her breathing hitches, a muted whine. ‘No one else. Only you.’ She works a hand between them, too, and cups him through his trousers. He breathes in sharply through his nose as she palms his cock. ‘And you, Doctor?’

 

  This is her blocking the exits, cutting off any hope of escape: there’s no running from this question. He tumbles, easily, into the answer, not caring that he’s already fallen, had fallen the moment he met her. ‘Only you.’

 

  Rose kisses him, hard. A promise, sealed.

 

  In graceless, fumbling movements he removes his hand from her knickers, does up her zipper and button.

 

  The Doctor guides her, arm wrapped around her waist, through the club, pushing his way through the dance floor and to the other side. He sees a blur of brown, a knowing smirk; feels the need to crush Rose to him and ignores it, just. There’s no need, he tells himself, because she’s holding  _his_  hand, has laced their fingers together, and it’s  _his_  kisses that have made her flushed and sweaty, and have smeared her lipstick.

 

  Cool air hits them as he opens the side door: it’s rained since they stepped into the club, dropping the temperature and coating the concrete in glossy puddles. He parked the TARDIS in the alley and now it’s half in darkness, a corner of the blue box peeking out from the shadows. Rose’s heels click as she walks, counting down the steps until they’ll be through the doors – it’s too far, it’s taking too long, it must be miles and miles, stretching out, getting further away, it seems, with every passing second.

 

  He turns her, abruptly, deciding he’s waited – they’ve waited – too long. She’s facing him, shock barely registering before he’s rushing them back the last few meters, mouth on hers. His left arm hit the TARDIS first, absorbing the impact: the force shudders down his forearm and he’d feel it later in his shoulder, if he was human, but he’s not. Braced over her, he slides in closer, slides his hand to her head, cradles it gently. Tilts her face up so he has access to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, and places stinging kisses there in order, teeth and lips and tongue, nudging aside the neckline of her shirt with his nose.

 

  His erection throbs and he rocks his hips into her, and it is very apparent that this going to happen right here: a dingy alley, against the TARDIS, the muted music from a nightclub drowning out their voices.

 

  Rose agrees, her hands tell him this: she pulls at his jumper, pulls it up and lets her fingers glance across the skin there; the muscles tighten, quiver, at the contact. He feels the edge of her nails, feels them rake down his chest leaving hot-cold trails of almost pain. The sensation blossoms out, spreads, runs up the back of his neck; he sags forward, elbow locking, his teeth grit in a tortured grimace.

 

  She has a cheeky grin as she circles his nipple, goes further down and reaches his belt. When she tries to tug it through the loops, he stops her, eyes flashing; very slowly, he takes her wrists and moves them away, lifts them up and above her head, pinning them there against the flaking blue paint. Rose wriggles, she shifts, testing his hold, but his fingers have curled around her securely. He’s the one to grin, and he’s sure it must be wolfish, as he unfastens her shorts, let them drop. Her lips are parted and her breathing comes in small, shallow pants, so he draws down her knickers, too.

 

  Her legs aren’t long, but they’re  _hers_  and they’re lean and toned and he wants to get on his knees and worship them. To create a trail of kisses to where they meet and have her arch towards him, off the TARDIS, have her press a hand to his head, keeping him there for hours. He doesn’t let her wrists go, doesn’t give in to the desire, but he logs the thought away.  _Later_ , he thinks, as the knickers pool around her ankles.  _Much later_ , he amends, when Rose kicks her clothes away, staring at him defiantly in just her vest and high heels.

 

  ‘Fuck,’ the Doctor swears, and lets her wrists go so he can work the buckle of his belt, and kiss her. It’s a mad rush, then, Rose pushing down his trousers, and him pushing up her shirt; a sloppy circle he licks around her nipple, and the breathless giggle she makes. Then there’s nothing left but to hoist her up and back against the TARDIS, one leg wrapping around his waist reflexively.

 

  ‘Please, please, fuck, please, c’mon,’ Rose is saying,  _chanting_ , really, squirming impatiently before him. His cock is resting between her legs and he smoothly runs the head through her folds, preparing them both – she’s so wet, so turned on, that’s all he needs – and then he’s thrusting forward, thrusting into  _Rose Tyler_ , grunting into her neck and shaking from the effort of constraint. It’s so hard to pull back slowly when her arms are wrapped around him tightly, when her nails claw at his back and she’s using her foot on the ground to leverage her hips up towards him.

 

  It’s too much – she feels too good, hot and tight around him – and he gives up any hope of finesse. He pumps back in, faster, harder, finding a pounding rhythm that makes the TARDIS shake and Rose groan in approval.

 

  As he fucks her, his mouth roves over her neck, sucks at the skin there and leaves red-purple splotches as reminders of what they’ve done. Her leg is stretched, trembling from the strain; he hears the scratch of her heel as it slips and catches on rough concrete, in time with his thrusts. Rose frees a hand to move between them, not as cheeky as before, not focused on his pleasure but her own: her fingertips brush his cock, make him nearly stumble in surprise, but then she’s flicking at her clit in determined movements. She’s very quiet, muffling her noises in his jacket – there are wet teeth marks on the leather – and then her eyes squeeze closed, her muscles tense. She comes with a spasm, one that makes her curl inwards and lose her balance, almost slipping down the wooden exterior of the TARDIS.

 

  And then he’s coming, too, his climax hitting him as soon as Rose cries out softly – his name is hidden in the sound, and he groans, tipping over when he hears it. He rides out his orgasm with half-hearted thrusts, his knees too weak to slam home. It’s intense, and his jaw aches from how he’s clenched it, but the spluttering moments of pleasure are worth the soreness.

 

  The Doctor lets her catch her breath, a beat, and then another. As they recover, the environment slowly bleeds back into his awareness, dilating his narrow field of focus. There’s more than just Rose’s warmth and skin; there’s the drip of water off eaves, the thudding baseline from the club. An alley, full of trash, and the fact Rose is naked from the waist down, and has his fingerprints bruised, right on her flesh.

 

  It should make him feel guilty, horrified, at what he’s done. Instead, fierce, hot possession flares.  _His_  fingerprints.  _His_ Rose.

 

  She clutches tighter to him, and it makes a tangle of tenderness knot in his ribcage. ‘My Doctor,’ Rose says.

 

He is.


End file.
